THE WORLD DICTATOR
It has frequently been observed by impartial and neutral observers,
as, for example, the learned Professor Heinrich von Stosselkopf, of
Zurich, the Italian Professor Emil Zonnernheimer, of Verona, and
Captain Albert von Zohm, the brilliant writer of Sweden (you will
observe that I have an excellent memory for names, as indeed all true
Germans have) that Germany holds all the qualities of world-sufficient
kultur save one, namely the inability to tolerate frivolity.
This does not mean that we Germans have no sense of humour. How we
laugh at the English and their stupid jokes! How puerile is the
American so-called fun spirit! Give a German a true joke, however, and
he will “ha, ha!” with the best of them. The story of the little boy
who climbed up the church steeple and fell upon some iron railings and
was prosecuted by the unimaginative policeman for damaging church
property, is one which roused a tempest of laughter from one end of
the Fatherland to the other.
Who in the world has not roared with delight at that true German story
of the lady who went to a doctor of music and showed him the corn of
her knee?
The German spirit is the true spirit of humour. Therefore, I reject
with scorn the suggestion which has been made by some who have seen
these notes, that I am trying to be funny or comical. The errors into
which a man may fall are many, but as I have said before, it is the
spirit in which one makes the attempt to serve one’s country which
counts, and it is not the performance, whether it be successful or
otherwise, which should count to a man’s credit.
I have never asked of my beloved Fatherland for any honour. I have
been content to serve humbly and obscurely. I know that the records of
my work have been wilfully suppressed by jealous superiors, otherwise
to-day there would be blazing on my bosom the Order of the Red Eagle.
Yes, I repeat, the Order of the Red Eagle has been stolen by the lies
and the misrepresentations of those who have belittled the monumental
nature of my labours in England, Scotland, Wales and the Isle of
Wight.
There are moments when I grow cold with rage at the thought of this
base treason--but enough of this!
I pass to the strangest adventure of my experience, and I tell this
story because not only does it reveal the amazing unscrupulousness of
the British government, but I think it will also show the marvellous
adaptability of a German agent. I do not suggest that all agents would
have acted as I did, but then I do not think there are a great number
of German agents who are possessed of my extraordinary capacities.
It will be remembered that after my deportation from England, by a
certain Major Haynes, of whom more anon, I was submarined and landed
again on these inhospitable shores, and by reason of the sentence of
deportation, which had been illegally passed upon me without a trial,
I was compelled to lie, as they say in England, doggo.
With most of my friends I dare not communicate, and though I had
written to Major Haynes announcing that I was in England, and asking
him to give me an opportunity of calling upon him, giving, of course,
no address, I did not hear from him immediately. I had, however,
inserted an advertisement in the _Daily Megaphone_, stating that I was
a clerk with experience in the Argentine, Cuba, Batavia and Holland,
saying that I was willing to work for £200 a year, the combination of
those words meaning that I was an agent in distress and that I was
requiring £200. I had no doubt in my mind that the call would be
responded to. I was officially penniless. I had some money of my own,
but why should I spend that when there was so much money to be had for
the asking?
I called at the office of the newspaper and received a big batch of
letters in response to my advertisement. I took them back to my new
lodgings, for I had left the old apartments, owing to the fact that
the proprietor was a fanatical teetotaler, and in the privacy of my
own room I took the letters from my pocket and turned them over
rapidly, looking for one which would have an inky finger-mark on the
back flap.
I found and opened the envelope, and discovered, as I had expected,
four bank-notes for £50 without any reference to the sender. I would
have thrown the remaining letters upon the fire, had there been one,
but fortunately time was hanging on my hands, I had arranged to meet
Kriessler, the only man in London with whom I could safely
communicate, and I had two or three hours to fill in before that
appointment. So what was more natural than that I should open these
offers of a situation and read them through? Thoroughness is the
characteristic of our race. We despise no material, however
unpromising. Germany was built up upon by-products, and her wealth
extracted from the dust-bins of Europe.
They were letters of a conventional type asking me for recommendations
or inviting me to make calls upon the writers. It was the fourth
letter which interested me most of all. I read it through carefully,
put it aside, skimmed through the remainder of the letters and then
returned to this extraordinary missive.
The paper was heavy and rich. There was on the top left-hand corner a
coat of arms embossed in gold and blue. The address was 182, Berkeley
Square, which is one of the most fashionable residential squares in
London. This address, however, had been scratched out and there had
been substituted “Stoney Cottage, Hebleigh-on-Avon.” The letter was
marked “Private and very Confidential,” and ran:
“If the advertiser is a person of discretion, and is willing to act as
confidential secretary to a high government personage, and has a
knowledge of world politics, a permanent position with a salary of
£500 per annum can be offered to him for the duration of the war.”
I pondered this letter for some considerable time and before I went
out to my appointment with Kriessler, my mind was made up and I had
written offering my services, informing the writer that I had acted in
a similar capacity to a certain Legation which I was not at liberty to
name in Holland; that I was the soul of discretion, that I had no
friends in England, and that I was not liable for military service. I
added that I should be glad if the advertiser could arrange a meeting
in town and that in the circumstances I should like it to be as secret
as possible, because I was already doing confidential work for a
government department and they might not like to lose me.
The next morning came a telegram in reply.
“Meet me to-night at ten o’clock at the corner of Berkeley Street. I
shall be wearing a tall hat and light gloves.”
Ten o’clock that night found me at the rendezvous and punctually to
the minute a taxi-cab drew up and a gentleman alighted answering to
the description contained in the telegram. I walked up to him taking
off my hat.
“You are the advertiser?” he said sharply.
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
He looked at me thoughtfully. The light was very dim but I met his
gaze without faltering.
“Do you speak French?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Walk along with me,” he said, taking my arm.
The cabman evidently knew his client and did not expostulate at his
departure. Had I been the fare he would have covered me with vile
abuse and would have told me that he had no petrol. Such is the
unscrupulousness of London cabmen!
We walked down Berkeley Street and turned into the deserted Berkeley
Square. He stopped in front of a gloomy house.
“I live here,” he said, “but I am at present staying in the country.”
His voice was sharp. He spoke brusquely and without politeness, and I
realized in a flash that he was noble-born. He asked me several
questions, more or less irrelevant, and then suddenly he turned about
and walked back in the direction of the cab.
“I think you will do,” he said, “you will leave to-morrow evening for
Hebleigh. I will meet you at the station and drive you to my cottage.
I keep no servants in the house when I am at Hebleigh.”
This seemed strange, but I was afterwards to discover that the cottage
had been specially built for my new employer, with vacuum cleaners,
gas and electric stoves, a perfect system of central heating, water on
every floor and a bathroom attached to every bedroom.
What a comfortable place, thought I, what luxury and how providential
for me! Here I could lie quiet for weeks and never be discovered, with
nothing to break the monotony of life but an occasional bath.
I had brought down a small hand-bag containing my worldly belongings,
and I was ushered into a small bedroom simply but expensively
furnished by my host. It was in that room, the first room in which the
lights were all switched on, that I had my first good view of him. He
was a man of about fifty-five, rather thin, very grey, with a pale,
æsthetic face and long, nervous hands. It may seem curious to you
that I had not asked him his name, but if you imagine I neglected that
precaution you do not know your Heine. I had asked him but he had not
responded.
“A woman comes every day to make the beds and to prepare our principal
meal,” he said. “You will not see her because she does her work whilst
I am in my study, and the meals are served on a lift which comes
straight from the kitchen.”
To his study he led the way. It was a large room, one wall of which
was covered by a bookshelf filled with large and imposing volumes. A
handsome table filled the middle of the room. There were two
comfortable arm-chairs and a writing-table. Under the window, across
which a heavy curtain was drawn, was a smaller table, and to this my
unknown employer pointed.
“That will be yours,” he said. “Your duty will be to translate
despatches which I shall write, into such languages as I shall tell
you. Do you speak German?”
I kept a straight face.
“Perfectly,” I replied.
He nodded approvingly.
“You wonder probably,” he said, as he seated himself at the table and
looked at me strangely over the tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses fixed on
his nose, “why I require discretion, why I chose you without knowing
anything about you or without any kind of reference? I chose you in
the first place,” he went on, without waiting for me to explain that I
could produce references, “because in the first place, I think you are
a foreigner. Am I right?”
“In a sense----” I began.
“Very well,” he went on. “Oh, by the way,” he looked at me sharply,
“have you ever heard of Bilbury’s Tablets?”
I had indeed heard of Bilbury’s Tablets, the advertisements of which
covered the hoardings of England and formed the most attractive
reading matter in the stupid British newspapers. I therefore answered
in the affirmative.
“Do you know the man Bilbury?” he asked, still looking at me keenly.
I was at first tempted to say that I did, but on second consideration
I thought it best to tell the truth.
“No, sir. I have never met him.”
“Good,” he said, nodding again.
He leant back in his chair.
“Bilbury,” he said--“and this, you will understand, is
confidential--is one of the biggest and most dangerous forces working
in this country against England. I have reason to believe that, under
one name or other, he is supplying most of the German agents with
their money. I am satisfied also that his advertisements are code
messages to the enemy government--you see, I trust you.”
I nodded, a little bewildered, for I had never known of Bilbury,
though I had heard that there were in England certain persons of whose
identity I was ignorant, who were working with the Fatherland.
“I tell you of Bilbury,” he went on, “because in part he explains a
great deal of the secrecy both of my habitation and my movements. He
also explains why I have chosen, as you might think haphazard, a
confidential secretary. You are under no circumstances to communicate
with any of Bilbury’s agents, and you are at all times to be prepared
to counter the machinations of this extraordinary man.”
There were two or three letters on the table, and one of these he
picked up, slit it open and took out what appeared to me to be a
perfectly blank sheet of paper. He held it up to the light and
frowned, replacing it upon his desk.
“Your presence here is already known evidently,” he said, “but I don’t
think we need bother very much about that. Now,” he went on more
briskly, “you are entitled to know who I am. Do you know Lord
Catherton?”
“I have seen Lord Catherton,” I replied.
He nodded.
“Do you know the Earl of Seabury?”
I shook my head.
“I have never met Lord Seabury.”
“Have you ever seen a photograph of him?” he asked.
“No, sir,” I replied, “I have not.”
Lord Seabury was until recently an English colonial governor, who was
now one of the members of the War Cabinet. He is not a man who has
figured largely in public life, and not at all in English public life,
and as I had never troubled about the colonies he was unfamiliar to
me.
He nodded again.
“I see you don’t know Lord Seabury,” he said with a little smile, “for
I am he.”
My heart gave a great bound. Heine indeed had fallen upon his feet,
thought I! To find myself in the confidence of one who was admittedly
a most powerful member of the War Council--what fortune, what amazing
luck!
“Now you understand why I shall require that you treat everything I
say, and everything you witness here, in the strictest confidence.”
That practically finished the conversation. His lordship led me to a
little dining-room where dinner was already laid, and we ate our meal
almost in silence. He told me I could go to bed, that he was an early
riser and would require my attendance at six o’clock in the morning.
I scarcely slept that night, turning over and over in my mind how I
might use to the best advantage the information which I was certain to
gain.
I had taken the precaution of buying at Paddington Station a little
guide-book of the district, and I carefully studied the roads, the
railway stations, and a time-table, with which I had provided myself
with my usual forethought, and planned out the course I would take if
it became necessary to leave hurriedly. With Kriessler in London, able
to forward my despatches to the Highest Quarters, I had no doubt that
within a week the name of Heine would be ringing along the corridors
of the German Foreign Office.
Punctually at six, I presented myself in the library, and found that
his lordship had prepared coffee with his own hands. From six to eight
we worked strenuously, his lordship writing, sometimes asking me to
translate into Spanish, sometimes into French, occasionally into
German, his brief but vital correspondence. I memorized as best I
could all these letters. Some were to the Minister of Foreign Affairs
in France, one was to a neutral Legation at Berne, this being marked
“Very Confidential and Secret,” and sealed heavily with his lordship’s
own hand. One was to a Spanish Cabinet Minister, and all dealt
intimately and frankly with the conduct of the war. I remembered in a
vague way that I had heard that Lord Seabury was the virtual dictator
of England, but I never realized it until I read those dictatorial,
intolerant messages which he sent forth, one being directed to the
commander-in-chief of a certain British army, telling him that he was
on no account to attack before the fourteenth of the following month.
Breakfast was served in the room where we had taken dinner and once
that was dispatched we returned to our labours. For the whole of that
day I was kept busy. A draft treaty with the Portuguese Government,
dealing with the future of the island of San Thomé, was one of the
documents which occupied the greater part of the afternoon in
translating.
At dinner his lordship was unusually frank, and under my genial
flattery he unbent.
“It is true, Mr. Smith,” he said (Smith had been the name I had given
him), “that I am dictating the policy of the Cabinet, which reminds me
that I must draft a letter to-night to the commander-in-chief of the
battle fleet. I am not at all satisfied with--” he stopped short--“by
the way,” he asked, “have you had any communication from any
mysterious source?”
“No,” I replied.
He shook his head a little despondently.
“It seems absurd that one should be dogged by a pill-maker,” he mused,
half to himself, “but that fellow has got to be dealt with sooner or
later.”
He left the room to go to his study, leaving me to finish a glass of
port, and I was rising from the table when he returned.
“Come this way,” he said in a whisper, “I will show you something.”
He led me down the corridor into the study in which the lights had
been extinguished. We walked across the room and he pulled back the
curtain. A bright moon was shining and at the far end of the garden
near the road was the figure of a thick-set man who was pacing slowly
and restlessly up and down the road. He dropped the fold of the
curtain and we returned to the dining-room which faces the back of the
house.
“That gentleman is M. Tarakanova,” he said, “and Tarakanova is the
chief of Bilbury’s agents.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully, “I shall
have to send that infernal dossier to town.”
“The dossier, my lord?” I repeated, innocently.
“The dossier,” he said.
He made no further explanation until later that night when we were
working in the study, a stealthy reconnaissance having revealed to me
that M. Tarakanova had disappeared. In the wall of the study was a
safe, and just before, or rather immediately after, he had bade me a
curt good night, he stopped my departure with a word, walked over to
the safe, opened it with a bunch of keys which he took from his
pocket, and pulled out a long yellow envelope which was heavily
sealed.
He brought it carefully back to the table, switched on the table light
which he had extinguished, and placed the envelope under its rays.
“Look at this,” he said.
I looked. In a firm hand was written on the top of the envelope, with
a neat red line ruled beneath:
“(1) Statement signed by William II. Emperor of Germany, on July 5th,
1914, expressing his intention of making war.
“(2) Letter from Emperor William II. of Germany to Emperor Francis
Joseph to the same effect.
“(Original documents).”
I did not speak. I was incapable of speech. Within this envelope lay
documents in the very writing of the All-Highest Supreme War Lord!
Documents of greatest national interest! Historical documents which in
the enemy’s hands might damage the beloved Fatherland and our Noble
and Glorious Kaiser!
I was clear-headed and cool. Those documents should be restored to
their Imperial owner. What reward would await the gallant and
enterprising gent. who delivered these papers into the hands of our
Supreme and Noble Master! I grew dizzy with the thought of the
emoluments and the honours which might be showered upon me. No office
was too high for the man who could render that magnificent service to
the State!
My hand trembled as I touched the secret dossier.
“I must get rid of this at once,” said Lord Seabury. “It is too risky
to keep it here--put it back in the safe, Smith.”
Dare I do it? Half-a-dozen steps separated me from the desk to the
steel door in the wall. I half-glanced at his lordship. He was looking
at a document which he had half-finished before dinner. Quick as
lightning I slipped the envelope under my coat and under my arm,
slammed to the door of the safe, locked it and handed the keys back.
He thanked me and put them in his pocket.
“You may go now, Smith,” he said.
The perspiration was trickling down my forehead and I walked
unsteadily down the passage to my room. I closed and locked the door
behind me, took the envelope from my pocket and sat down on the bed.
There was a small writing-table in my room which had been placed there
at my request, and a supply of stationery. To enclose this large
envelope in one larger was the work of a second. I wrote a brief note
to Kriessler telling him that it was a matter of life and death that
the enclosed should be sent forward by the safest channels and should
be placed in the hands of the All Highest himself.
I then began the most important letter I have ever written in my life:
“All Highest Majesty.
“Your humble and obedient servant has the honour to transmit to Your
All Highest Majesty a document which I have extracted from the safe of
the English Cabinet Minister, Lord Seabury, at great risk and with
much labour, though I count no labour too great if I am to serve Your
All Highest Majesty. My name, as Your All Highest Majesty’s Minister
of Intelligence will tell Your All Highest Majesty, is Heine.”
I added a number of other interesting details about myself, where I
could be found, what was my salary, and this paragraph, which I regard
as one of my finest efforts:
“Though no decoration blazes upon my humble coat, and no patent of
nobility has been granted me, though I am a poor man with no more than
my official pay to sustain me, I am nevertheless proud and happy to be
of such service to Your All Highest Majesty as will merit Your All
Highest Majesty’s approval. I seek no rewards, no decorations, no
monetary grants--I do this for the Fatherland, and for Your All
Highest Majesty, who is the epitome of Germany’s greatness.”
I placed this and the dossier inside a large envelope, and in the
middle of the night I tip-toed back to the study in my stockinged feet
and found a larger covering in which to enclose the letter which I had
addressed to the Emperor. On the outer envelope I wrote Kriessler’s
English name and address, and soon after daylight I let myself out of
the house and walked in the direction of the village of Hebleigh which
was distant about a mile from Stoney Cottage.
I dropped the big envelope into the village post-box, retraced my
steps and reached my room without my absence being detected. I had to
risk his lordship discovering the disappearance of the letter, but
fortunately throughout the next day he showed no intention of going to
the safe, and beyond a reference to Bilbury, he scarcely spoke a word.
All day long we were inditing letters to every part of the world,
which his lordship sealed with his own hands, and which he packed away
in a leather satchel. How he posted them or whether he sent them to
London, I did not know, but I presumed that a Foreign Office messenger
attended discreetly and performed this duty.
Half-past eight that night, immediately after dinner, his lordship
went to his study and suggested, when I attempted to follow him, that
I should have a little fresh air.
“You need it, my friend,” he said, “you have been playing a part
to-day in the government of England, in the direction of affairs of
the world. Surely that merits a little recreation.” He smiled almost
paternally.
I walked through the little panelled hall, opened the front door, and
stepped out. A man was standing by the gate. It was Bilbury’s man,
Tarakanova. To whom he was talking I did not know, but somebody stood
in the shadow and I heard his quiet laughter.
I shrugged my shoulders. I had nothing to fear from Bilbury, indeed I
was curious to learn what the agent of this mysterious person had to
say to me. So I walked boldly up the garden-path, humming a little
tune, and Tarakanova turned to meet me. He was, as I say, a thickset
man, clean-shaven, so far as I could see in the dusk, and not the sort
of man you might imagine would engage in espionage work.
“Good evening,” he said, as I came up.
“Good evening, sir,” I replied politely, “it is fine weather for this
time of the year.”
“You’re a trite devil,” said a voice in the half-darkness.
I turned to face the man who had spoken, and with whom Tarakanova had
been in conversation. I did not faint. I pride myself that I retain my
self-possession with remarkable sang-froid.
“Good evening, Major Haynes,” I said, not to be outdone in
cool-collectedness.
“Having a nice time, Heine?” he asked.
“Yes, indeed, Major Haynes,” I replied; “you got my letter?”
“I am sorry I did not reply, but I have been rather busy, and learning
you were down here, I thought I would look you up. How is his
lordship?”
“Very well indeed,” I replied with great politeness.
Tarakanova laughed.
“I presume you know,” I said, as the thought struck me, “that this
gentleman is an employee of Bilbury.”
“I know that very well,” said Major Haynes, “though he is not exactly
employed by Bilbury, but by the gentlemen who are administering Mr.
Bilbury’s estate. You see, Heine,” Major Haynes went on in his
fearfully monotonous voice--how that man irritates me!--“the
plutocratic Mr. Bilbury, who is a very rich gentleman, went off his
head about four years ago.”
“Went mad?” I said.
“Went mad,” said Major Haynes, nodding, “not dangerously so, but just
enough to be a nuisance. His pet illusion is that he is Lord Seabury.”
“Oh, yes,” I said faintly.
“He spends all his time,” Major Haynes went on, “writing despatches
for important personages, and generally in running the war. Mr.
Jacobson here, is, if I may put it crudely, his keeper. I suppose he
has told you all his secrets?”
“Oh, yes,” I said carelessly.
“I wonder if he showed you that dossier of his about the Kaiser. I
hope you haven’t by any chance pinched it and sent it to His Imperial
Majesty,” said Major Haynes with coarse brutality, “because it happens
that there is nothing more interesting in it than a pamphlet on the
remarkable quality of Bilbury’s Pills.”
“Major Haynes,” I said in a husky voice, “I surrender.”
“Not at all,” said Major Haynes, “look me up any time you are in
London, and I will see what I can do for you. Now,” said this long,
cool devil, with true British wit, “you had better run back to his
lordship. He will be wanting you for a new offensive, or maybe to send
an ultimatum to Sweden.”
I made no reply. With dignity I returned to the house, walked up to my
room, and packed my bag.